


journal number one

by watermillieon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Gen, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Insane Wilbur Soot, Kinda Self Insert, Lowercase, Mentioned Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Mild Language, One Shot, POV Second Person, Resurrected Wilbur Soot, Villain Niki | Nihachu, some of it takes place after prison dream smp arc, some of it takes place in the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29865666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watermillieon/pseuds/watermillieon
Summary: coming from the dead carcass of your nation, what will wilbur soot tell you, his loyal reader, about the events that unfold soon afterwards?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	journal number one

**Author's Note:**

> i have never written anything on ao3 im only here because bee said this would be big brained to post here <3  
> also hope its ok its all lowercase i prefer to write with it like that :D

you hadn’t spent much time in the halls of the library that much until that evening. it was deeply late into the night and a ting in your brain felt called to a scuffed and ragged old journal tucked beside eloquently put together history textbooks - it seemed extremely out of place.

curiosity is one’s downfall, because before you know it, you grasped onto the journal like no other and found yourself cozy next to a torch and some cookies opening the first page:

‘wilbur soot’s first journal of many in the dream smp. l’manberg first unofficial president. pogtopia rebellion leader. d--’ the rest was scratched out as if done furiously and in a panic. soon would you realize that a lot of it had that same ink scratched out pattern that seemed almost manic.

but caught your eye was a passage with functioning dialogue dated sometime in march (or was it may? you really couldn’t make out the ink smudge) of 2021. 

——

lots of average men nowadays want to know how every woman felt when falling from heaven, but they never care to ask the guy who embraced death with a devilish grin what it felt like to be dragged from the depths of the void. the cold, deeply-engraved-into-your-bones void that makes you wish for all darkness to consume you or for your solitaire arena crafting to take even longer than normal. maybe it’ll take longer if we do a different card pattern - oh, well that’s not the point of me telling you about my little fantastical, brilliant moment, is it now?

so, dearest reader, or however the poets would say, you’ve found my tale and maybe a nation not too far in the future will find this and embrace my woes and tales with an open heart and gleam with the sun’s joy to find that me, your deranged author, writing once again. ‘deranged?’ you ponder. silly reader, telling you that now would only spoil my enjoyable tale. yes, enjoyable tale of drama, poetry and the act of scraping the literal shit out of my knee.

firstly, it’s called patience. it’s something you have to hone in on. embrace it and then one day, abandon it and get all nitty-gritty impatient and simply go on with all that boiling ambition you have in your soul and orchestrate your plans as if a villain in a history book. 

secondly, it’s called a dream. a dream is played around in any sort of genre whether it be from the sweetest princess novel to the most horrifying mystery novel to hit shelves. so take your dream and step on it; it’s now a spider invading your house. smash it to bits, because with dead dreams comes a hunger; a desire for something greater than a dream could possibly give you.

and lastly, bring a tissue when you die. seriously, you don’t understand how much of a mess it was to fall splat on my face climbing out of this carcass of a nation. genuine pain in the ass.

so why am i explaining all of this to you, my devoted reader? besides for being the only thing to someone i can just simply tell all my evil plans and diabolical ideas to, i simply believe it’s interesting to watch the way your face shifts and reacts to my words. you’re one of a kind, aye? thinking i’m so terrible, but reading on . . . maybe it’s because i’m just that entertaining. i have been known to captivate citizens with my voice and phil liked to tell me that my words were my strongest weapon or something of the sort - never can remember the little details, but hey! death sure is hilarious!

‘where am i?’ you ask. if i gave you a detailed explanation of my symphony, we’d be here for days, or maybe even months, depending on if you’re fucking dead or not. l’manberg was once a special place is what i told him; i mean think about it . . . a nation kicked, spat at and beaten to a simple pulp, one puff away from all the cards falling into your lap. it was nothing like it’s birth, nothing like it’s possibilities of what it could’ve been. so it’s a skeleton of its possibilities, an empty body of those pesky dreams.

now this inner monologue was interrupted by someone i recognized quite well, tommy innit. boy was something of a brother to me, well, back when we were waging wars and defending what little honor we had left, he was. now, this was not the tommy innit i remembered, the way his right eye barely opened and the scars that peaked out from his shirt and ripped jeans were just begging to be kissed by someone more loving than myself. this was not the same little boy from the ravine, this was a boy who had seen the world and taken a great beating.

“wil-” right as i was giving the kid a gold star for being tough for having seen shit, he trembles.

“missed me?” obviously, i smirked at him, opening my arms as if welcoming my little brother a hug. tommy attempted to stand his ground once more, but if i knew little tommy innit, you could easily see how his fingers were rubbing circles over and over again on his crossed arms. 

“sure as hell didn’t miss you!” tommy’s lips pressed together and his brows furrowed, “back so early?” he was trying is best to seem strong and tough, but if i saw a guy i haven’t seen in i don’t fuckin’ know, nine years come back to life emerging from the rubble of a city he blew up i’d be a bit scared shitless myself - ha! you believed me? that could never happen because tommy or phil would never blow up a nation and no one would care to bring him back to life.

“you left while i was setting up the solitaire arena, had to come drag you back to hell to keep up the game!” i adjusted myself, the trench coat i was wearing was now missing so all i had was a stained white shirt, my beanie, jeans and scuffed boots.

tommy pointed towards my upper torso, “niki has your coat.” i cocked an eyebrow.

“why does she have it?” 

“i don’t fuckin’ know, i gave it to her,” he didn’t make eye contact. rocks crunched under his feet as he shifted weight, “seemed like she wanted it or somethin’.”

“whatever.” ignoring the rest of the conversation, having become tired with it, i brushed past the boy  
.  
“where the hell are you going?” tommy’s feet crunched the gravel more intensely now, attempting to keep up with my fast pace.

“the ravine,” i didn’t look at him so i couldn’t see the stunned expression, but oh, how i could feel it ooze off of him. he was absolutely taken aback. did i know why? no, absolutely zero idea. did i care why? another no. “don’t come with me.”

and for once in his life, tommy innit listened.

——

the ravine was covered in cobwebs and the button-covered walls were still the same as they were nine years ago (later learned to be only a couple months). the chests, potato farm and stairs seemed to have stayed in horrible condition; no one had probably been here since my death so it was a place in history, frozen in time. water dripped in the distance and the hum of an old portal still echoed off the walls.

someone once said that even in the face of all darkness, it’s the courage to keep going that defines you or i think someone said that or maybe i said that! whatever, anyways, some would say to never step into a ravine full of frozen memories, but be damned all you cowardly persons, because unlike you, this was my last memory of where i laid my head to rest, before it became phil’s shaky arms.

my room was untouched which was easily noticeable by how much dust laid upon everything. the only thing that was clean and seemed recently moved was a journal, or well my journal. they won’t tell you in those l’manberg history books that ‘oh, l’manberg president wilbur soot wrote in a journal about his days and adventures’. it was nothing but a sentimental thing that i stopped doing once the rebellion began because when it was once a comfort to jot all my thoughts down quickly turned into another way for disloyal citizens and followers to read all about my innerworkings and no one besides me, and i guess you, little reader, are allowed to see.

almost instinctively, i flipped to the last written page. the date was smudged, but if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head a bit, in cursive read september 22nd, 2020. the writing was furious and quick. pogtopia was just declared it’s own nation, a rebellious nation. there was a great amount of ink crossing out different lines that almost the whole page was filled with aggressive markings. it was as if i later went over the writing at a later date, but because i am wilbur soot, i can tell you that is exactly what i did. paranoia is nothing of child’s play, if i do say so myself.

i slammed the journal on the desk in almost a furious motion when a pebble from the inner cavern fell unexpectedly. someone was here with me. leaning against the wall nearest to the door, i waited. i am not a man of sword and shield, but of words. i was fully prepared to flirt my way out of this.

“wilbur?” her voice echoed, there was deep pain latching onto her vocal cords. i tilted my head, was that--?

“wilbur, i saw you come out of the rubble.” her foot steps began to get closer. some sort of metal softly scrapped alongside the ground also continued to become louder and louder as she approached.  
it wasn’t long until she made her way through different rooms with my old room being the last. the door almost slamming right into my jaw, but she greeted me with a face unrecognizable. that may have been the body as the niki nihachu,, but the pink hair, my bloodied trenchcoat and the way her eyes dazzled with decay was a completely different entity all on her own.

“niki?” i couldn’t help but soften, she was an ally from the beginning who always listened to me and heeded my warnings. she was always what people would call a friend.

“it’s been a long time.” the blistering cold from her demeanor was extremely different and shocking to the system from the sunshine she once glowed with.

“it sure has been.” 

she made her way to the chair, lounging back and carelessly dropping the sword - which would have explained the metal noise from early - onto the table. she pulled on the sides of the coat and kicked her feet onto the desk before an almost demented smile painted her lips.

“it’s been way too long, wil,” she pointed lazily with her finger towards the stool in the corner of the room, “we have much to catch up on.”

——

and the journal entry ended there and that was simply the last page of the journal. so without a second thought, up to your feet you went searching for wilbur soot journal number two, but unlucky you were that someone who frequently visited the library had taken it out for another read. the sweet librarian suggested that if i were to find the book to look for the guy draped in forest greens with the most enchanting wings.


End file.
